


Keepers of the Tide

by brasspetal



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bittersweet, Dark Past, Fantasy elements, Lighthouses, Loneliness, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystery, Slow Burn, Some angst, Strange Libraries, Weather related surrealism, healer!Miranda, lighthouse keeper/clockmaker!Flint, witchy!Silver
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13392054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: There's a place where tide and time are one and the same.--Flint lives his life as a quiet isolated lighthouse keeper until a storm washes a stranger up on shore that changes everything.





	1. The Spine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salatuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salatuh/gifts).



> This was a [prompt](http://brassfannibal.tumblr.com/post/169756803360/silverflint-where-flint-builds-a-quiet-isolated) given to me by an anon on tumblr and it just took off from there. Tags/characters will be added as the story progresses.
> 
> This fic will eventually be explicit.

There’s a tamed curiosity one develops when alone for a time. It calcifies like the walls that incase him but they aren’t reminders. These shards of himself are willingly let loose beneath him as an extension of the sea.  He is contented in his aloneness. He is not in need of company or companionship to fulfill those old dreams. When he smiles, it’s for the spaces of silence and the ticking. Always the ticking.

The moment James Flint stepped into this tower, this cradle at the edge of the world, he became its keeper. It welcomed him within its curve as if it’d been waiting patiently.

The Isle of Harrow rests in the heart of the sea. There is a single small sleepy town called Athney that lies miles across from the lighthouse like a perfect invisible line. Flint rarely travels there unless he is in need of supplies.

It is an isle in between that rests in the palm of the fog with its very own lungs like the tide; the rise and fall, the tumbling and receding.

If the island was a creature the lighthouse would be its spine.

Inside, there are five levels that are each connected by a wooden spiral staircase: The first is a darkened foyer for hanging coats and thoughts. The second is a stark empty room except for a dusty small bed that he’s yet to find a use for. The third is the ticking room. The room that he creates and repairs all manner of clocks. It’s warm there, lit up and gleaming, like a space where things begin. The fourth is his quarters, where he sleeps and cooks, where he reads and ponders. His bed is situated against the tall walls and beside it is a filled shelf with old books which have been warped with age. There’s a bedside table with a lantern beside a flowerless empty vase and a small kitchen rests a few feet from the bookshelf. The top floor is where the beacon slumbers until he awakens it and shines a light over the gloom of the sea.

There’s a small cottage down the path from the lighthouse that rests dormant and dark. The furniture remains ever silent with white dusty sheets to cover them, like ghosts frozen in place. It is a living memory, dimmed and collecting spiders. One he doesn’t venture into.

There is space for breathing and for a new form of comfortable awareness. This is not complacency for him but simply a home.

He catalogs cogwheels like the skeletal structure of time and some of them gleam at him in the candlelight. It’s usually quiet enough to hear the flame dance and the soft background of the living sea.

He rarely speaks these days but he didn’t have much use for it. He isn’t melancholy for some release. He is accepting of such a quiet fate as any Keeper would be and on adventurous days when the sun greets him warmly, he is the guardian. He is the guardian of the shore, of time and the spaces between dreaming.  

Although it has been some time since a ship has harbored here it doesn’t wane on his heart. He’ll still shine the beacon to greet the dark like an old friend.

He goes on walks along the hillside where wild grass softly clings to him in passing. This land is an old friend too, it treats him with certain kindness even if the cottage behind him serves as a memory. One he doesn’t acknowledge but won’t allow himself to forget.

He thinks sometimes he sees smoke coming from the chimney and a silhouette standing in the window. The guilt takes many forms but it is not something that consumes but lies in silence like that very house. He has resigned himself to never step inside it again where once a warm fire crackled in the hearth. He suspects spiders have now taken residence neighbored by rodents seeking shelter. He lets them have it.

He used to brand himself a coward but now he knows that he is merely a survivor and that comes with its own trappings. The guilt evolved into something survivable.

James Flint isn’t made purely of dark but he understands it, respects it, harbors it and frees it lest it takes hold of him. It has before and that is where it’s left its mark, left the guilt behind like a small crack.

\--

The rain holds itself delicately in the air in this place, it lies below gray smudged clouds. Flint stands at the top of the lighthouse, his hands on the railing with his head raised to the sky. His eyes are closed as the rain embraces him to grace his cheeks like tears. The dew below him and above him is like an antechamber before the storm. One is coming, a dark one, a tide changing one. The kind that roars in search of refuge and finds none.

He looks out to the fog-filled horizon over the wild green of the shores beyond and finds a foreboding silence. There’s a ripple in the sky. A new color that at first appears dark but he recognizes the hues within it; pulped against the clouds. The storm is already forming along a dark line but he knows it won’t reach him until the night. He thinks it’s easier for storms to find fury when the sun sleeps.

He opens the trap door with a squeak and steps down the spiral stairs, locking it above him. Around the oval of the corner is his bedroom where he boils tea and sits at the wooden table with a book. A book that had an injured spine that nearly sends the pages gliding away from him.

He reads along the yellowed pages in the dim warm lantern light. He sips the hot tea carefully and peers over at the thin window above his bed. There is a wall of darkness growing nearer with each breath. His calmness is a challenge to it but he’s always found an odd sort of comfort in thunder ever since he was a boy.  He’d lie awake and watch the shadows fight amongst themselves in a duel and he’d remain in awe. He’d never hide. Those storms knew him, not the _him_ he presents to the world but the one beneath that. The brooding adventurer with a careful contentment for silence.

If the storm has something to give him this time then he will accept, unflinching.

He glances back down at his old book and flips the crisp page between his fingers. The words hold a new heaviness like that of foreshadowing but he doesn’t repeat them, not aloud like he wishes to. Who would he read to? The storm?

He hasn’t reached that sort of madness yet when he can hear the darkness speak beyond nightmares. He shuts it carefully and places it back into its space on the shelf before removing his boots. The bed is stiff but his back has grown used to the discomfort over time. He lies down on it, resting his head on the pillow facing the bland wall.

“Goodnight.” He says to the warmth and the approaching storm. He doesn’t dwell on the dread nor does he dream.

\--

Out in the dark, the sea is more than an abyss, it is made up of ghosts. Those outstretched hands that guide a struggling figure towards the dark land mass, blinks into view each time there’s a fight to reach the surface. The sight of it is more terrifying than opening his eyes to the blackness below.

The current guides him into the jagged black rocks that breach the surface like teeth. He is at the mercy of the waves and they seem to afford him a small window of control. He fights against the funnel away from the flashing gleam of sharp edges.

He gasps once he breaches the surface again to be pelted by the rainfall. The glacial glide and the tumbling back into the dark is enough to disorient him. He’s like an insect clinging to a piece of bark.

The roar of the storm is deafening but he’s no stranger to its purpose. The reason lies ahead like far away humming. He knows the sweet cadence and the song. There are parts still yet to play.

He swims towards that invisible line beyond, where the land mass waits. His arms and legs ache from the continued struggle but there is no respite for him yet. The apathetic sea conforms with the cruelty of the storm and he lets himself be carried forward.

The waves grow feral nearer to the shore. No longer are they large careful gliding beasts but thrashing unwilling to perish against the sand. They toss him in each belly and he’s pulled under only to be sent straight back to the surface once more. He gathers the air when he can. There is no drowning for him.

\--

The storm greets Flint with a howl and he sits up to the banging of a shudder that’s come loose from across the room. It slams against the wall loudly echoing upwards. He stands up tiredly and pads towards it to shut it tight. The clasps had come loose and shaken open. Thunder clashes and he blinks in the darkness still half asleep. It had something to tell him, something it wants him to know but he’s too tired to listen.

He lies back down in his bed and closes his eyes to attempt to search for the elusive entity, sleep. It’s a fruitless one but he’s stubborn enough to lie there for an hour before conceding to the whims of the howling. The storm’s tantrum is winning. It’s echoes now ring in his ears like whispers. What did it want to tell him? Show him?

He can almost hear it, the taping and pattering, the downpour against the shell of his tower. It had taken some time in the past when he first took root here to get used to how loud the rain echoed in this small tight space. It always sounded like it had something to say but even more so this night.

He stands from his bed to open the shudder and peer out of the window to the dark shore but he sees nothing but a blur of rain. What more did he expect it to afford him? An answer to a question he’s yet to ask?

“What is it you want?” He whispers before running his hands over his face. He’s truly going mad, speaking to thunder.

There is nothing but rain, even the thunder lessens to somewhere far away beyond him, another shore, another lighthouse, another him. He wonders in such a parallel if this other self had a cottage he refuses to rest his eyes on. Would he make the same mistakes? A mirror is a mirror, he solemnly concludes.

He lights the nearby lantern, brightening the room and grabs a random book from the shelf. He knows what it is without even searching the title: The Odyssey, of course it was.

His fingers skim the words but he knows them like an old wound, not so freshly cut but one that grew over time. He sighs restless in his chair and he licks his finger to the turn the page, not giving into the urge to bolt from the lighthouse in search of the unknown.

This urgency has never struck him like this before as if he hears the soft song from a siren from beneath the pouring rain.

“My name is Nobody.” He reads aloud and lightning snaps against the hills, drawing his attention to the window once again. It’s the answer to that unspoken question.

He can almost feel the heat of it leftover like a spark beneath his skin but he doesn’t dare speak aloud again. He reads quietly until the darkness is gray from the waking hidden sun. There are no more lightning snaps and the thunder is gone. The rain has lessened but it still taps like beaks on the glass.

He shuts the book and slips his coat on as he brushes the hair away from his face. He descends the spiral to the bottom floor where he opens the wooden door to the outside fog. It sticks to his skin and dampens his hair.

The path downwards is muddy and unforgiving to his boots but he manages. The raindrops collect on the back of his neck and in his eyelashes. He blinks them away and stares ahead towards the rolling fog on the hillside cliff then back beyond the cottage. The shore is empty aside from jostled shells and broken bits of sediment.  There is a chain of seaweed like a net that stretches around the jagged corner of a protruding rock. It blocks the rest of his view of the inlet.

He glances up at the sky as if to ask _‘what now’_ but there is no hint to guide him, he just knows he must walk on through the sand.

He steps by the net of seaweed and avoids a skittering crab at his feet before passing the rock to gain a better view. At first, he hums a low laugh amused with his bout of madness but the smile falls from his lips when the fog begins to dissipate to reveal something in the sand. Someone in the sand.

They aren’t moving. He can hardly make out much from where he stood but his feet feel planted in this spot unable to remember how to move. He feels trapped but in resounding curiosity. Had this figure lost his ship? Would there be others?

There’s a gathering familiar feeling that he somehow knows there are no others, that like him this man is alone; set loose.

He carefully steps closer, approaching with caution and he is able to discern that he’s wearing a small brown coat that rests on his hips and dirty boots to match. His curly dark hair lies messily against his shoulders and partially in the sand. He can’t see his face from this angle and he still doesn’t stir.

Flint approaches the stranger closer still and shoves his back gently with his boot but he doesn’t wake. He could be dead, drowned in the storm, and there wouldn’t much he could do but bury him. He’d do him that service at least and maybe give him a fake name so that the marker wouldn’t be empty.

The wind lightly caresses the stranger’s wild hair across his neck, giving the illusion of movement when there is none. Flint is almost sad for him. He looked young, younger than him. He reaches out to grab his shoulder and force him to roll over. His curly hair slides into his face and his eyes remain closed.

He’s striking, like letting your eyes adjust to a bright full moon. Seeing his face finally burrows a hole in his chest. Why had the storm given him this poor dead sailor?

He kneels down beside him and leans his head carefully over his chest. He hadn’t noticed any movement yet until he lowers his ear to his heart. The soft thudding startles him back and he observes the man with a new suspicion as if he’s playing a trick; pretending for his benefit.

A fragment of relief is loosened inside him though and he is appreciative that no grave is to be dug this day. He sighs, however, at the thought of allowing him inside the lighthouse. He rarely has visitors and when he does he prefers to greet them outside. The tower is his space and most others feel as though they are invading it but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. The young man may be alive but the condition he’s in remains a mystery.

Flint lifts his arm over his shoulder and pulls him up against him. He goes pliantly, his head lolling against his shoulder and he half-drags him back towards the lighthouse. The importance of this act is not lost on him. He doesn’t feel like this is something he should treat lightly. It’s as though there’s a fortune to be read but he is not ready to hear the telling of it just yet.

He guides him inside the doorway and through the threshold. There’s a dimmed sort of coloring that seems added in his periphery as if the man somehow changed the light ever so slightly.

They ascend the stairs to the dusty unused bedroom and he rests him on the small bed beneath the window. Although this room is smaller, the window is larger and the view better than his. He can see the fog burning away unable to hold the sun at bay.

The stranger remains unconscious and Flint observes the intake of breath as if he’s examining a fossil. If he didn’t wake soon he’d have to fetch the only healer on this island, Miranda Barlow.

They hadn’t seen each other in months. He usually avoids her worrying gaze when he goes into town for supplies. She does write him letters, that he reads but never responds to. He keeps them stacked neatly within a drawer by the bookshelf as a useless apology for neglecting communication.

He steps out of the room and locks the door behind him, slipping the gold key in his pocket. He hopes this disruption will be brief and the stranger will wake, be on his way, and take the storms with him.

 


	2. A Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint seeks Miranda's aid to wake the sailor.

The night is crisp in its chill with the window slightly propped open. The sky is clear, given way to innumerable stars. They are roadways, maps that Flint used to trace when he was a child. He’d lie in the purpled grass and lift his finger beyond the moon and he’d pretend there were pathways that would light up like celestial breadcrumbs.

He glances out the window beside his bed to those same stars, seemingly brighter. There are no storms this night. It’s the comforting lull of a familiar quiet, only his heartbeat isn’t the only one residing in this tower.  

Sleep eludes him because his thoughts rest on the occupant in the locked second bedroom. He has stood beside the door several times already, listening for any creaking board or the sound of a voice but it’s silent from within.

He lies down facing the lantern before snuffing out the flame and leaving nothing but the deep dark blue hue shining in from the moon. It basks in the room in muted shadows and Flint wishes he could capture colors to carry them around like keepsakes.

Even if the chill from the outside seeps in, the warmth of this place remains. It’s in the furniture, the old books, and the melted waxy candles. It’s as if someone marked the very boards with an archaic ward to fend off any phantoms born from the veil.

Flint is where he is supposed to be, anchored but free to peer into any metaphorical doorway he wishes to. It took him some time to gain the understanding of the symbiotic relationship he has with this tower but now that he has, he is in tune with every creak.  Which is why it unnerves him that he is unable to sense or hear any movement from the sailor below.

He lies on his back, shutting his eyes to the far away crash of the sea against the promontory.

\--

By the next morning, while feeding the stove some wood, he notices the chill has worsened, more so than usual. He feels stiff while making his tea and rubbing his arms. He can spot his tired reflection in the teapot. His hair is still a mess from tossing and turning in bed.

There’s a creak and the small sound of something softly banging against the wall.  Flint quickly throws his old robe on and descends the staircase barefoot until he reaches the landing of the second bedroom. The chill seems to be seeping through the bottom of the door like a subtle invasion. The muffled banging he heard from upstairs persists.

He carefully unlocks the squeaky bedroom door and slowly pushes it open. A cold wind swims forward to caress his hair and the first thing he notices is that the window is open. The shutter is softly banging against the wall.

The unconscious sailor is still where he left him. It doesn’t appear that he’s moved and yet the window is somehow open, letting the cold wind inside. Flint quickly crosses the room and shuts it with a snap before hovering over the bed hesitantly. He observes the rise and fall of his chest and concludes once again that he’s grateful he still lives.

He knows he’s not much of a caregiver but honestly, this whole experience has unnerved him beyond which he’s ready to examine yet. He reaches forward and touches the man’s shoulder before shaking him gently but he still doesn’t stir.

“Who are you?” Flint asks softly even though he knows he won’t receive an answer. He grabs an extra blanket from the cupboard and awkwardly casts it over the man like a net. He hopes that will suffice with the change in temperature. The man remains still beneath it as if put under a spell by the sea.

Only the howl of the wind answers him. It’s louder than usual, like someone wailing to climb inside.

He steps quietly from the room, pulling the door shut and locking it once more.

Back in his quarters, he drinks his tea absently while assessing his frayed nerves. He despised going into Athney. The townspeople tend to poke their heads out of their hovels to gawk at him as if he’s the bane of their existence on the isle. He knows there are stories about him circulating the hamlets but he didn’t much care to hear them repeated. He is who he is, he’s done what he’s done.

He pulls a gray sweater sporting holes at the edges over his head and slips his boots on.

A flock of seagulls takes flight from above and he listens to them squawk loudly at one another until it fades into the distance of the shore. There is a silence here that is occupied. One he isn’t used to. He preferred keeping his silences to himself but now the quiet breathing of this place is shared. He feels exposed. Even though the poor sailor is yet to wake, he seems to be blaming the changes solely on him. He didn’t even know his name, what he sounds like, where he’s from, why he washed up on this island of all islands. He wonders if he’ll be bitter or kind. He wonders if he’ll ever wake.

What would he do then? Let him remain in a forever sleep leaving Flint perpetually unsettled?

He sighs irritably and steps down the staircase only stopping briefly to eye the quiet bedroom door once more. He runs his fingers through his hair tiredly and descends the rest of the way to his coat.

Outside, fog rests on the edges of his periphery, rolling out like the waves amongst the sea. He was tempted to bring a book with him for the journey back but the heavy metallic clouds are threatening rain.

He steps down the path of cracked dried mud and looks out to the pebbled roadway beyond the cottage. The cottage feels much more present than when he usually passes it without a glance. Its shadow clings to him like the dew in the air. The intensity of it is disorienting and he already misses the comfort of his tower. He could turn back, give it more time but then the sailor may die. He didn’t want to be responsible for that.

The storm had given him this man without rhyme or reason. He’s set out to return things to their natural order; his thoughts required it.

The path to Athney is longer than the last time he traversed it as if the road somehow stretched itself further amongst the hills between the fog. The familiar feeling of reeling untethered often occurs on this particular journey. It rests on his shoulders like an entity, reminding him that the time of attempting to assimilate with the world has passed.

He tried once but the failure of it doesn’t haunt him any longer. He is accepting of the quietness, it has given him more happiness than the singing noise of society ever would or will again.

Growing closer to the town means more random faceless carriages he must sidestep and avoid, each of them with their own set of eyes. He knows he seems paranoid but entering the town is much like stepping onto a stage. He doesn’t have a performance prepared for it.

The town itself is filled with oddly shaped circular doors and windows, shutters that are carved with intricate patterns like vines and the cobblestone streets lead to the center square. There are archways and overhangs collecting wild vegetation. There in the center a clock ticks with the wrong time that no one ever fixes. It’s perpetually behind.

The townsfolk may whisper amongst themselves and watch with a curious suspicion but they’ve never bothered him at the lighthouse. He thinks some of them fear him and perhaps cast him as the madman who lives alone in silence. He doesn’t mind being that sort of madman. If developing a companionship with quietness is a form of madness then he welcomes it.

Beyond the edges of the town, across the cobblestone where it gives way to grass once more, he travels onward to an overgrown path with a wooden sign that reads: _‘Barlow’_.

His shoes crunch on the rocks kicked up along the path that leads through an archway of trees. There’s a secluded bend in the trail and all manner of flowers bloom here along the roadside. He thinks that Miranda somehow willed it by pressing her fingers into the dirt. He knows this land has come alive because of her no matter what the townsfolk of Athney believe.

He stops his boots as the rain begins, collecting on his shoulders and on his cheeks. He stands in front of the small bright cottage entwined in vines and blooming roses with thorns that latch onto the roof. He thinks even the flora hold this place sacred. They’ve marked themselves to protect it.

An older woman steps out from the cottage with a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders and scowls at him at him from afar.

Athney isn’t a place for strangers or outcasts. He wonders if any of them have the will to smile, even the children seem tame, none run around in the puddles laughing into the sky.

He steps through the mud, his hair is damp against his forehead and catches the door handle before it slips shut from the wind. He can already feel the warmth when he pushes it open once more.  

It’s hard to describe the comfort he feels in Miranda’s presence, the smell, the air, the light is softer. He’s forgotten the feeling until this moment and it’s suddenly overwhelming like smelling lavender brought back from his childhood. His throat constricts and he blinks away the wetness threatening to form beneath his eyelashes.

He feels as though he disturbs this space of solitude when he steps beyond the doorway and into the small front room. Candle’s dance at his entrance and there is a lively fire spitting embers in the carved fireplace. All around the room are herbs and organized blooms seemingly breathing in this space.

He spots her organizing bottles of oil against a wooden table. Her hair is braided but pulled back into a bun. A loose strand of it rests against the shell of her ear. She’s wearing a plain beige dress but it suits her beautifully, fanning out and lightly sweeping along the floor. The soft sound of clinking glass and a crackling fire are the only things that encompass this room.

“Miranda.” He says quietly and her fingers suddenly halt over the bottles and she slowly turns to face him.

Her eyes search his for the answer to a question not yet voiced, “James…”

“How have you been?” James asks because he truly wishes to know.

She smiles a little at him and rests her hand against her side idly, “I’m well. What about you? How is the lighthouse?”

“It’s well.” He replies as if it is a living creature he cares for.

They stand there breathing between the invisible divide of the room. Even the shadows are pleasant and inviting in this space.

“There is a reason for this visit beyond pleasantries. I can see it.” She presses and crosses her arms awaiting the reveal but her words aren’t cold, they brandish worry.

“The storm that raged the other night left someone behind, a sailor. He’s unconscious and has yet to wake. Have you heard anything about a shipwreck?” James asks and she motions for him to follow her into the back room. He complies and pushes the dark red curtain away separating the rooms with his fingers. It reveals a desk and a full bookshelf of a collector’s stash of readings.

“I didn’t hear of a shipwreck but I had a dream that the storm spoke and I couldn’t hear what it wished to say.” She states and bends down to unlock a cabinet with a small key. She removes a dusty satchel and begins to fill it with herbs, extracts and a small book that is wrapped in a red thread.

“I want you to come back with me to the lighthouse.” Flint requests and she peers over at him as she sweeps strands of hair away from her face.

There’s a moment before she grabs the satchel from the floor and stands. She doesn’t answer him and she begins to blow out the candles surrounding the room one by one in contemplation.

“Will you come with me?” Flint asks again and she pulls a small faded blue case from beneath the bed.

“Meet me outside.” She speaks quietly and Flint nods in understanding. He hesitates in the curtained doorway before taking his leave to the rain.  

\--

It’s pouring by the time they rest inside a small carriage. It shifts and shakes in the dips of the mud. Miranda is sitting across from him, looking out of the window at the edges of Athney before it disappears from sight.

“They don’t all hate you.” She speaks plainly with a smile threatening to appear.

“All Athney knows is hatred for the unknown and the things it doesn’t understand,” Flint bitterly answers and Miranda leans back with her hands comfortably in her lap.

“You scowl at them and don’t invite conversation. People will make assumptions from your behavior.”

Miranda quirks a brow and Flint shakes his head stubbornly.

“I have nothing to converse with them about if they want to believe in superstitions about me then by all means. If they want to hate me then I don’t much care. I’m not here to make friends.” Flint summarizes with irritable emphasis. He leans back away from the window because he didn’t need to see what he already knew was out there. Hills of mud and grass, a cloudburst of gray and a town behind them filled with vultures.

“There are good people in Athney, James,” Miranda replies kindly.

“Yes. You,” Flint quickly retorts and Miranda sighs with frustrated amusement. They eye each other in the rough silence of the carriage.

“I understand your love of the quiet I won’t begrudge you for that,” she concedes.

They listen to the wheels trample the mud for the rest of the journey and his chest loosens the nearer they grow to the lighthouse. He thinks he’ll breathe better once he’s inside, the air won’t seem so violent and consumed.

The carriage stops at the beginning of the path towards the cottage and he pays the driver before they make their journey back.

Miranda is graceful as she battles the mud between them. It collects along the bottom lace of her dress, trapping her shoes but she walks on as Flint did, unbothered.

The rain has become a light drizzle that hangs in the air like soft small petals tapping their faces, wetting their skin enough to shine but not soak.

He’s grateful she doesn’t look at the cottage when they pass or comment on its presence. It is just a building made of stone with no warmth left to cast out from its affixed darkened windows. She stops when she reaches the front oval door first and watches him approach with his set of keys.

“I must admit something,” she speaks and her thoughtful gaze casts over the shore.

“What is it?”

“This feels like a beginning,” she replies and her eyes find his again, gathering what reaction she can. Flint blinks at her with a small tilt of his head.

“Whatever do you mean?” He questions but he already knows. He didn’t have a name for it. The change of light, the evolving sky hanging heavy on awaiting storms. They are breathing before turning the page in a freshly bought book.  

She nods at him to open the door and he complies, setting her suitcase against the entrance wall. She steps inside observing the shadows of the foyer as he removes his coat that has collected raindrops for the tower to absorb.

“Tell me you don’t feel it?” She asks, looking up towards the spiral staircase with cautious curiosity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lies and Miranda removes her shawl, folding it neatly over her arm.

“You were never good at lying, especially to me,” she says and he can tell she’s smiling before they ascend the stairs.

Their shoes echo upwards like their future ghosts have already reached the top. She stops on the landing with her suitcase and sets it down beside the shut bedroom door.

“He’s in there,” she states breathily and Flint pulls the gold key from his pocket. It shines with his reflection before he unlocks the door with a loud click.

He steps inside first to find the window has been opened yet again and it softly bangs against the wall in the breeze. He quickly shuts it with an as aspirated sigh, “That is the second time this damn window has come unlatched.

She says nothing, she’s silent behind him and he turns to face her to see that she is studying the sleeping sailor with intriguing apprehension.

“What is it now?” Flint asks and she sets her suitcase beside the bed.

“He’s a pretty one,” she comments and a grin graces her face when she points her scrutiny at him.

He feels altogether sought out by the very light that waits dormant in this tower.

“That’s irrelevant,” Flint surmises.

She kneels as her smile fades beside the bed and runs her hand over the sleeping sailor’s forehead brushing the curls away from his shut eyes. Her fingers linger on his cheek when a look of concern paints her features.

“He’s cold as ice,” she observes and then quickly rests her head on his chest. There’s a short panicked moment when he believes yet again that the sailor may have died and the sudden sorrow of it surprises him.

“His heart beats but it is weak,” she says, relieving him as she reaches into her satchel of concoctions and produces a clear oil. She pops the small cork and sets it to the sailor’s pale lips and pouring a little into his slack mouth.

“What is that?” Flint asks, pointing and she pushes the cork back inside the vial.

“Hanscomb seed extract to warm him, but I don’t think I can simply wake him, James. He’s-“ she stops and rests her hand softly on the sailor’s chest.

“He’s…?” Flint encourages her to continue.

“He’s gone someplace else,” she softly admits and Flint scoffs, his face is pinched with confusion.

“Someplace else? He’s here, Miranda, in this very room,” Flint uselessly advises but he feels it as well. He doesn’t understand how this man seems like nothing but a shell; a placeholder.

“I will try tomorrow but I don’t think it will be that simple,” she shakes her head and stands from beside the bed, keeping her eyes resting on the sleeping sailor.

He looks paler than yesterday, his lips lack color, it’s as if he’s slowly becoming a ghost; ready to disappear.

She grabs the sailor’s limp hand and lifts his palm upwards. She runs her fingers over the skin and then softly rests it on the bed.

“I don’t think he’s a sailor either. His hands are smooth, there is no damage, no roughness,” she observes.

Flint is truly puzzled by that revelation and presses his lips together before leaning against the shelf.

“Why was he lost at sea? He is not from this island or Athney for that matter.”

“He’s not from here,” Miranda answers and the deeper truth is not lost on him.

“Where did he come from?” The question is a rhetorical one but he somehow hopes the man will wake and provide him with the answers.

“As you said, the storm brought him to you,” Miranda speaks cryptically but there’s a fear beneath it that he doesn’t wish to explore at this moment.

A loud rumble of thunder sweeps in from the sea that forces their attention to the window. The sky is quickly darkening.

“It might be best to try and get some rest, you can have my bed upstairs,” Flint advises and Miranda latches her suitcase shut.

There’s a new energy to their movements, a careful one, lest they awaken more than the man sleeping in this room. The storms usually sense a change in the atmosphere; a new revelation born from a lost one.

“Where will you sleep?” She asks before taking her leave.

“The clockwork room, there is a chair that will suffice,” Flint replies with a warm smiling nod. She gifts him one back but the reassurance doesn’t match her eyes.

Storms have always made Miranda nervous ever since they were children but Flint’s affinity for them remains.

They used to count together after a lightning strike and Flint would mourn the loss of the thunder if it didn’t answer them back.

\--

Later, in the soft glow of the clockwork room, he grips a small gold gear with a pair of tweezers to gently place it in the shell of a silver pocket watch with the initials T.H. carved into the edge of it.

Lightning brightens the room and then leaves it to the candles hazy hue once again. The new storm is quiet with its arrival as if it wishes to play hide and seek. He isn’t worried about this one gifting him another poor soul but it does make him obsess over the current one below him.

He rests the tweezers on the table and stands to sit in the comfortable wrinkled cushioned chair with an old book. The cover is roughed with age and his fingers linger over the bind. He relaxes back into the softness, resting the book in his lap. He doesn’t have a chance to open it before his eyes blink closed and sleep claims him.

He dreams that night for the first time in a long while and it feels almost like waking.

There’s a flickering light behind his eyelids, like a candle close by and when he opens them it isn’t the clockwork room he sees. He’s lying on the floor between two large bookshelves that stretch high above him to a domed vaulted ceiling. There are iron chandeliers hanging with lit candles that sway from a chain. He can even hear the soft creaking, the turning of a page and the sound of crumbling rock.

He sits up slowly disoriented and sees beyond a bright wooden archway to an elegantly carved railing leading onward. There are hundreds of bookshelves in the foreground, all of them large and towering. There are listless lines of softening light that make the dust visible in the air.

He stands quickly, using the shelf for support and glances at the book binds that remain unfamiliar to him. They are ordered in a symmetry he’s never seen before. 

He catches the sound of toppling pages and a frustrated mumbling that follows. He squints walking down the corridor of volumes to the opening that reveals the brilliant archway. The large spiral in the center leads down into a small pool below. The water shines clear and the wall of it curves upwards to a staircase. It looks ancient as if this library was built upon an old ruin. There are bookshelves above and below him seemingly never-ending in any direction.

Flint wonders how he could possibly dream all of this up. It’s true that his book collection in the waking world is lacking and perhaps this is his mind providing him with a strange reprieve from the reading material.

There’s a sudden huff and then, “Who the hell are you?” The perturbed voice asks from behind him. Flint turns from the railing and observes the lanky man before him who is dressed in a wrinkled cream colored long coat that stretches down to his knees. His dark hair brushes the tops of his brows and he has an oddly groomed pointed mustache with sideburns to match. He’s wearing large goggle glasses and the left lens is cracked. His face is pinched grumpily and he tilts his head at him as if Flint is the anomaly in this equation.

“This is merely a very odd dream,” Flint speaks more to himself than to anyone. The strange man squints at him as if he’s confused and offended all at once.

“What? What dream? How the hell did you get here? Who are you?” His voice becomes more shrill by the end of the sentence.

Flint glances behind him to a stack of parchment that reaches from the floor to the middle of the shelf. A few pages glide down from it, skating to the floor to more disorganized piles.

Whatever kind of dream this is, Flint thought it better to play along until he wakes, “Who are you?”

“Might I kindly remind you that it was you who appeared here not the other way around..” the man declares.

Flint feels as though he could scrap his own skull empty searching for the reasons why his subconscious is giving him this. It seems oddly specific, almost real but that would be impossible.

“I woke up between one of your shelves,” he replies truthfully and the man shakes his head at him.

“Fascinating…it truly is,” he deadpans and moves his goggle-like glasses up his forehead to rest on the crown of his head, “Now, who the fuck are you?”

Flint is beginning to feel the irritation of his patience waning and his expression darkens, “You aren’t real. I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.” 

A rumbling laugh vibrates from the man’s mouth and he answers, “I assure you I’m very real.”

He reaches for something in his thin belt but the confidence soon vanishes when he pats his empty waist in confusion. Flint observes with partial amusement. The man sighs after realizing the action is futile and lifts his head to the domed ceiling to murmur in frustration, “She took it again…”

“Always good to keep a dagger on you. You never know when the time will arise that you’ll need it,” Flint recites in a jab and the man laughs falsely loud to mock him before strangely extending his hand for a handshake.

“The name is Jack Rackham and the pleasure is definitely not fucking mine.”

Flint’s caution is contorting into something that resembles sympathy for the man and they slowly shake hands. There’s an awkward moment of silence before Flint introduces himself.

Jack speaks softer with exhaustion, “do please tell me why you’ve come here?”

“I’m merely a sleepwalker Mr. Rackham,” Flint replies unintentionally mysterious.

“That makes absolutely no sense… _at all_ but fine, if you can find your way out please do so,” Jack waves his hand flippantly dismissing him and steps away from him back to his stack of parchment.

Flint’s amusement fades when he spots a drawing among the myriad of parchment collecting on the floor beneath his boots. He reaches down to grab and examine it.

It’s a sketch of a lighthouse. His lighthouse, on his shore. He recognizes the likeness because of the cottage that is a dark smudge on the paper.

“What the hell is…”

He’s unable to finish his sentence for he’s pulled out of the dream with a jolt. He sits up from his familiar cozy chair on a short gasp back in the safe confines of his tower. He leans forward gathering his breath and rests his hands in his hair, framing his skull.

He concludes it’s probably best if he found better reading material. Although, an uneasy remnant remains in its lightheaded awareness. The realness of the dream was inexplicable.

There’s a rumble and then a snap of lightning. The storm is hugging the coast in welcome but he hears banging again from the window shutter down below.

He sighs in annoyance and stands from his chair to descend the darkened spiral stairs. The lightning flashes his shadow like a tall beast against the bedroom door before he unlocks it again sleepily.  He notes the unconscious man still remains lost in slumber before shutting the window that has popped open. The wind blows the rain sideways inside, wetting his face and arms uncomfortably.

When he pulls back from the window a hand suddenly snatches his wrist tightly, nearly burning his skin from the chill of it. He startles and his attention sweeps to the man below him whose eyes remain closed.  The tight grip suddenly leaves him and the man’s hand goes limp once again against the bed. Flint steps back and rasps, “Christ ..are you awake?”

There is no answer. The man appears unconscious as if the exchange never took place.

A strange silence settles over the room that not even the boom of thunder can disrupt. Flint glances down at his burning wrist.  There are stinging reddened finger marks on his skin leftover from the touch.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind the world building! Next up will be Silver and Flint's meeting :) I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Behind The World

The shores of Harrow isle are muted with fog in the mornings. The sand is wet and erodes by the will of the waves. They welcome the wind home from its journey across the hills. There are usually seagulls nested beside the dormant beacon that flutter away at the first yellow hue of day.

There is quiet ticking coming from the room below his feet and the stove devours another log. Rain taps softly against the tower with a crackle like wet on leaves.

Flint stands in front of the narrow window in his quarters and observes Miranda who is standing barefoot on the shore in the light rain facing the sea like a living painting. Her hair rests on her shoulders, caressed by the wind. It’s as if she is asking the sea for guidance and there is something quietly sacred about it.

She reaches down grabbing a handful of sand in her fist and tosses it into the waves as an offering. He hopes the sea will have something important to relay.

She grips her dress, lifting it to her ankles and lets the waves consume her feet.

He steps away from the view and pours himself some hot tea, scalding his lips with it.

The window never unlatched during the night which would make it the first time since the mysterious visitor. Not since he grabbed Flint’s arm, impossibly burning the skin.

Flint slides his sleeve back to reveal the handprint still stinging irritatingly in his skin. He’d shown Miranda.

She was more curious than fearful of its origin but she’s always had an inspiring bravery when faced with all things strange. She hadn’t said a word while studying the reddened skin and after a moment took her leave to stand before the sea as she is now.

He rests the teacup on the edge of the counter but it teeters and smashes against the floor at his feet. Flint curses under his breath and bends down to pick up the broken shards but out of the quiet, he hears the banging again. He stills his fingers and listens to the muffled shutter from downstairs.

He leaves the shards on the counter and heads for the stairs, gliding his hand along the chilled railing before he reaches the landing.

Something is wrong and as he approaches the door it becomes more apparent.

The doorknob is ice cold, nearly frozen solid when he turns it. Opening the door is more of a feat than usual and it echoes a crack once it reveals the room.

The chill immediately seeks him out, wrapping itself around him; claiming his skin. He can see his breath in puffs in front of his face.

Flint’s eyes widen taking in the room itself which is frozen solid. The ground is slippery with ice, the bookshelf is encased like a cave and the chair has icicles protruding from the edges like knives.

The only thing that isn’t frozen over like a lake is the sleeping man, slumbering on a bed of ice.

“Christ…” Flint breathes in disbelief.

He slowly approaches him and hovers over him, squinting at him with caution. Had he done this?

He nearly slips on the ice below his feet when he leans forward. He hesitantly grabs the man’s arm to feel if he’s chilled himself but it sends a jolt through his skin.

From the simple touch, it feels as though he is quickly freezing from the inside out which elicits a yelp from Flint. The grip on the man’s arm tightens but not of his own accord and the world is fading to white like a sheet has been thrown over him.

The reality around him is becoming lesser as if such a thing is a figment and he falls back, finally releasing the man’s arm and smacking his head against the solid ice encapsulating the ground.

Darkness finds him through the chill and he loses sight of the lighthouse. His safety net has been pulled out from under him with terrifying ease.

\--

Even in the darkness, the chill doesn’t abate. He can feel it crawling inside him like a parasite.

When he wakes it’s with a start, gulping for air as if he’s been floating in a body of water.

Everything is suddenly bright all around him, white and harsh. He’s stiff and utterly freezing on the verge of another collapse back into blackness.

The wind is howling with agony and he sits up quickly realizing he’s lying in the snow in the middle of what appears to be a blizzard.

He hugs his arms, still in his robe and most definitely not dressed appropriately.

Where the hell is he?

He stumbles upwards, kicking the soft snow at his feet and shivers violently against the harsh wind that stings his face like needles.

This frozen earth feels more vivid and real than a dream. It is a lot like the experience he had waking up in the library. The sounds, the chill, the fragmented light all seem painfully real.

How is this possible?

He should feel terrified but instead, he feels nothing but the growing discomfort from the cold and rabid curiosity.

Through the ice wind, he can make out a mountain peak far off into the distance like a mirage and above that is a large bright half moon that shined like a beacon through the blizzard. As if the sky is his very own lighthouse guiding him.

It lit up a small path with a blue hue and he doesn’t care for an explanation. He knows he needs to find shelter as quickly as possible lest he turns into the frozen landscape itself.

He hugs his arms tightly breathing in the frost as it slowly becomes a part of his lungs. The wind doesn’t relent and circles above like vultures as he stumbles once again.

He pushes himself back up from the snow and that’s when he spots a single point of light in the haze ahead of him.

Trudging onward, he pushes through the icy fingers that latch onto his shoulders like a weight. He feels as though he should let himself sink into the snow and be done with it but that light ahead emanates a glowing warmth; a promise.

“Hello!” He calls ahead but the wind carries his voice up and away into the mountain tops.

He can make out what appears to be a small cabin in front of him and the light is coming from the window, from an unknown source, perhaps a hearth inside. He slides on the ice below his feet gaining momentum and forces himself forward.

The cabin itself is half buried but still manages to appear alive; unclaimed by the freeze.

The steep incline takes him by surprise and then he’s sliding against the frozen hardened snow at great speed unable to halt. He reaches the cabin, slamming into the rickety wooden front door and falling inside the blessed warmth onto the wooden floor.

The wind still whips at his ankles from the opened door and he grunts irritatingly from the way he stumbled and landed. It was the least graceful entrance he’s ever made.

He hears the door shut behind him, effectively blocking out the harsh wind.

“You could have wiped your feet first,” the soft amused voice announces. He turns, still lying on the floor and looks above him at the man smiling down at him.

It was the man, the supposed sailor, the one unconscious in….

“How is this possible?” Flint releases.

The man shook his dark curls and blinked his eyes that matched the sea at him, “Yes, yes I get it, how am I here when I am not?”

“What?” Flint manages. He is utterly lost.

“This place is a limbo of sorts, between your world and the next. I’ve been trapped here ever since the storm, or at least my waking mind has,” The man admits and Flint squints at him in annoyed disbelief.

“What the fuck are you talking about? This world and the next?” Flint questions and he starts to believe he’s lost his mind. That all that time spent with his own thoughts he’s finally created some other world to reside in. That is the only likely explanation for any of this nonsense.

“I’d like to tell you that this is a hallucination but I’m not that nice. This is real…” The man reaches into his thoughts and plucks out an answer for him.

He holds out his hand to Flint and Flint glares at it ignoring the aid entirely.

“I know this is a lot to take in but if you’d let me explain and then maybe you can help me out of this mess,” The man pleads as his brows crease together.

Flint tentatively takes his hand and he pulls him up from the floor. He’s taller than the curly haired man who stands in front of him assessing him as he is.

“You didn’t exactly dress for the weather,” The man says mockingly as he points to his robe.

“Considering I hadn’t planned on trekking through a blizzard you can forgive the undress,” Flint retorts with the twitch of his mouth.

The man smiles at him with a mischievous glint in his eye, somehow pleased with Flint’s grumpy demeanor. He motions for him to sit on a couch in front of the crackling warm fire.

He limps in compliance. His limbs still feel frozen and in need of thawing.

The couch is lumpy and not exactly comfortable but it will do because the fire awakens his skin again from the touch.

The man sits across from him, beside the fireplace in a stiff-back chair that is torn at the seams. The firelight casts a pleasant glow over the man’s face and it lights up his curious smile.

“My name is John Silver and you are the lighthouse keeper,” He announces as if such a title is held in high regard.

“James Flint and I would very much like to wake up now,” Flint supplies agitatingly clear.

“You are awake, your body however still resides where you left it but now that I finally have you here we can figure a way out,” Silver replies and eyes Flint with a curiousness to match his.

A howl of wind bears down on the cabin but it is unable to burst inside as if the fire is a guardian of its own.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Silver continues and Flint scoffs.

“Well, I still believe that I have lost my mind,” Flint surmises with a strange acceptance.

“You’re the lighthouse keeper,” Silver says cryptically.

“It’s obvious that has a different definition to you, if you’d explain,” Flint pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the beginnings of a headache forming beneath his temples.

“You are the traveler, “ Silver continues, purposefully irritating.

“That has no meaning to me. You might as well not speak at all,” Flint snaps.

Silver leans back as he rests his hands on his thighs, searching for a way to break the barrier of knowledge between them.

“I am unable to open doors…” Silver tries and Flint tilts his head at him.

“That must be awful,” Flint deadpans in confusion.

Silver sighs, “Not..doors as you know them, not physical doors but—”

“Jesus Christ…” Flint interrupts on a breath. Silver glares at him and continues, “portals. I am unable to form a channel to one world to the next, one universe to the next. You see…they are like pearls on a string.”

Flint’s laugh is a low rumble and he peers outside to the unrelenting blizzard. He feels as though such a thing is perpetual here. As if sunlight doesn’t exist.

“I need to wake up,” Flint says softly.

“In a sense, yes, but it wouldn’t make this world any less real just because you don’t reside inside it. This place is for the subconscious, those that are inexperienced with travel get trapped and die in this space. It is like leaping from a precipice only never reaching the other side but landing on a ledge in between. Only on borrowed time,” Silver attempts to unravel the confusion.

Flint turns back to him again, taking in those oddly familiar blue eyes, “you are saying that I am able to do that, to leap to the other side and yet here I am.”

“Yes, you are a Keeper. You are here because I brought you here. I’ve been trying to ask for your help because I am trapped here….whereas you are not but it is clear to me that you’ve yet to understand your ability which makes this rather difficult.”

“The window unlatching and then the ice,” Flint comments as he moves his eyes to the flames.

“My feeble attempts,” Silver replies and presses his lips together.

Flint moves his sleeve up his arm to reveal the reddened finger marks that still remain and he holds it out for him to see, “I wouldn’t call it feeble.”

Silver’s eyes light up and he stands from the chair to join him on the couch. He grabs his arm as if he’s shone him the sun.

“This is good, we can use this. It is a connection with the physical form,” Silver replies and it does nothing to ease Flint’s confusion.

He rips his arm out of his grip, replacing the sleeve and they stare at one another. Silver’s rapt fascination is apparent.

“No time to dawdle I suspect,” Flint says grumpily.

“I came to your isle looking for Thomas Hamilton, who I had thought was the Keeper but I find you in his place, which is most curious,” Silver confesses and Flint feels a wave crash inside his heart at the mention.

“How do you know that name?” Flint asks and avoids Silver’s perceptive gaze.

“There is a record of all active Keepers and your name isn’t on it. Although, Jack has been behind in his bookkeeping, but that is beside the point, what happened to him?”

Ignoring the familiarity of the name _Jack,_ he clenches his jaw against the inquiry.

“He is gone.”

Silver leans forward, his comfort is yet another irritation to Flint. This entire warm space feels like a waning barrier that will soon vanish and then they’d be devoured by the freeze.

“He is gone? He is dead then?” Silver asks bluntly and Flint refrains from lashing out.

He isn’t going to explain his history to this man, this stranger he just met. No matter if they do reside in a world behind a world.

“No. He is simply gone,” Flint replies and hopes it conveys his discomfort with the topic at hand.

“Alright then, no matter, you are what we need since you have taken up his duty and it is clear that you have the gift but I will need to see your arm again. You may be the channel but I must be the conduit,” Silver states and Flint remains still against his request. He doesn’t know why he feels suddenly stubborn but perhaps it was the way in which Thomas was suddenly mentioned. It left him reeling still from the sting.

“It is clear to me that I have pierced a sensitive topic but let us put that aside for now and get the hell out of here,” Silver encourages and Flint turns to face him again meeting his eyes once more.

Silver adds, “this fire, this warmth, this space is of my making and I can’t keep up the illusion much longer because my strength is depleting from being away from my physical form.”

He appears sincere in his words even if the insanity of the implication is clear.

Flint hesitantly holds out his arm, revealing the burn and Silver takes it with a grateful nod.

“Now, what I failed to mention was….this might be a bit unpleasant. I am sorry,” Silver says with what appears to be a mixture of false pity and amusement.

Before Flint can protest, Silver rests his fingers in the exact imprint of the burn and Flint’s skin lights up as if embers reside beneath it.

The heat of it is excruciating and he releases a yell unable to pull away. There’s a fire growing beneath his skin at the epicenter of Silver’s fingers. It suddenly feels as though he is to be torn apart and the room collapses in on itself like folded parchment and the light bursts bright.

\--

The beginnings of awareness hold a familiar comfort. There is no chill any longer and a false warmth is replaced with a real one. He feels a warm hand connect kindly to his cheek and his eyes flutter open.

Miranda is above him whispering something he is unable to hear and she smiles a little at his awakening. Her hair is in a loose braid against her shoulder and she has a shawl wrapped around her as if she’s recently woke from sleep herself.  

He is home once more.

“You’ve been asleep for a week and I’ve been trying to find a way to bring you back but it is clear that you needed to find your own way,” Miranda whispers and runs her fingers softly over his cheek.

His eyes widen at that and he attempts to sit up. The room distorts and then snaps back as if his surroundings are made from an invisible band.

His mouth is dry and he feels immensely drained, “A week?”

“Yes…and your guest awoke several days ago I might add. He is rather polite and enigmatic,” Miranda comments and Flint shakes his head as if the thoughts could suddenly fall into place properly.

“I met him…in a dream,” Flint blinks and takes in the comfort of the womb of his room from his bed.

“He told me as much, said that you helped him come back to himself,” Miranda supplies with a small smile for him to assess.

It’s clear she has somehow already grown fond of the stranger and Flint still feels nothing but suspicion.

How had he not lost his mind?

He is handling it well, considering the truth of it. It feels familiar in an archaic burn much like evolution. As if he’s suddenly evolved into such a new purpose like snapping a puzzle piece in place. He’s found something missing inside of him and it takes him a moment to adjust to the discovery.

“James Flint,” he hears from the doorway and they both look to see Silver standing in a strip of sun from the window as if he’s made from it.

“How is this possible?” Flint asks weakly.

“There’s still much to explain but we’ll get to that if you’ll allow. For now, I can understand your reluctance of acceptance. It is a lot to take in I imagine,” Silver replies oddly kind.

He wishes to snap at them both for being so understanding. He’s used to his own cruel thoughts feeding him false notions that he’s built walls around. Now, he has people living in his head; in his spine.

“I…need some time,” Flint states and closes his eyes. He listens to them both take their leave at his command like phantoms of his own making.

When he opens them again he is alone in this space as if he’s always been alone. There is no sound but the muffled crash of the waves; the breath of the landscape all around him.

He finds that if he is imaging all of this that there is no harm in taking the plunge into full madness at this point. It also allows the distinct possibility that the beginning edge of this journey is real and that he stood at the birth of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying this! There is plenty more to come :)


End file.
